


The Eroticism of Creation

by Rerun_Nachbild



Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Erotica, Friends to Lovers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 05:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29290596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rerun_Nachbild/pseuds/Rerun_Nachbild
Summary: For hours they have shared the ceramics workshop, Peter throwing pots and Miles drawing with his soft-lead pencils.Miles begins to wonder how Peter, as a sculptor, experiences art differently. His own art is two-dimensional. How wondrous an experience for an artist to touch and feel their creations...
Relationships: Miles Morales/Peter Parker
Kudos: 6





	The Eroticism of Creation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Marli_Toled0 (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/gifts).
  * Inspired by [You'll Rise Up, Free and Easy](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22503787) by [Marli_Toled0 (orphan_account)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Marli_Toled0). 



Miles walked in winding steps around Peter’s workshop. Languidly, he trailed his hand along a shelf. A cast of fine powder created a downy ghost on his normally penny-hued palm. He gazed at it with detached interest then looked to Peter, who still hunkered over the pottery wheel. For hours they had shared the workshop, Peter throwing pots and Miles sketching with his soft-lead pencils. After the first two hours, Miles broke to stretch. Each flex of his drawing hand made his tendons groan.

Peter showed no sign of pausing. His eyes were utterly bewitched; Miles recognized that eyelash-shrouded gaze.  _ Little surprise there _ , thought Miles, considering the subtle twitching along Peter’s neck… the unnatural stillness of his back… Did he not breathe when he worked the clay?

Yet, his leg pumped the pedal of the wheel, spinning the plate almost continuously. And then, of course, Peter’s nimble fingers caressed the ribbed walls of kaolin clay, up … and down, and again.  _ Look at that _ , Miles said to himself, watching how Peter interacted with the material, giving himself to it, and it taking form  _ for him _ .

Miles had watched. Then, he seated himself again and returned to his sketching. Only, this time he tried to feel with his pencil the slopes and textures of his subject. Feel them as though the pencil tip were a tracing finger, as though the flat of its lead were his splayed hand. His subject— he drew Peter, glancing up at him, over him— trying to shape him on the paper.

Another hour passed. Peter worked at the wheel, charming the clay into a snaking vase, while Miles actualized his image across his paper. Peter was iterated all over the page— from curly hair, down a round cheek, over hunched shoulders and thick sides, and  _ down _ , and the flesh running down between his legs— Miles wondered what difference there was for an artist who created with substances he held in his hands. As for Miles, he drew with pencil, charcoal, chalk— he painted— but, everything he created, no matter the illusion of body he could give it, was confined to a flat surface, in the end. He made nothing he could touch.

_ How unfair _ , he thought. Unfair to his subjects, unfair especially to Peter. Peter was not flat. He was not so limited in dimension.. He was made of  _ many _ and  _ much _ ! Leaping and fragile… And, he was  _ there— _ too much so to be rendered as substanceless. Did he not deserve to be raised from the living clay? To be warmed by the heat-breath of loving hands? Smoothed? Pulled?

Miles swallowed. 

So precious was he not? But that his image should be formed with volume, texture, dimension? Beautiful enough not to shut into a book, but to take in hand—

Miles was made aware of the sound of his breathing. The rhythm of it— the rolling down his stomach— the spasm in his cock, which he relished— before he stood and set aside his sketches. He began to walk around in the dust-blessed light, keeping himself, his erection, turned away lest Peter see the tilting shadow. Not that it was any subject of shame between them; they had been  _ comfortable _ with each other. Miles allowed a soft chuckle to escape.

Peter stopped pushing the pedal and sighed. The meek whine of the slowing wheel made Miles look. Peter reached an arm around his head and rubbed the muscles at his neck. The clay slip coating his hand painted a wide swatch of gray across pink skin. Then, Miles heard him chuckle, too. “What is it?” Peter asked.

“I’m only thinking.” Miles said as he watched Peter turn toward him. Reflexively, he tugged at his shirt’s hem, though he was sure that the pulsing there had calmed now.

Peter smiled and Miles tugged his shirt again. After glancing out of the window, Peter said, “I suppose we have been working a long time.”

Miles laughed. “You might say that. Only about five hours. You hungry yet?”

“Yeah!” Peter grinned, then frowned. “You’re not bored, are you? I’m almost finished—!”

“No, no, I’m —” Miles nearly said that he was occupying his mind. His lips quirked for a moment.  _ And how occupied it is! _

Peter swiveled back on his little stool. “I will do one last thing, then I can make us some supper. If, ah, you want to stay—?”

“Oh, yes, that’s nice— that sounds nice, I mean.” Miles cleared his throat.  _ Uy, què estúpido _ , he thought. Even after ten years of friendship, they both still bumbled like nervous kids. But— he smiled. Wasn’t that also somehow lovely? A shade, an impression in the composition of their relationship?

“Can you not give me any of that horseradish dressing this time— no offense!” He grinned, hands up in a surrendering gesture.

Peter kept his eyes on the clay as the wheel gained momentum. “Chrain?” Peter laughed. “I didn’t think anything was too spicy for you.”

Miles swayed casually across the space between them. “It’s not that it’s spicy. I just like the fish, er, balls without dressing.”

Water giggled this time as Peter wet a sponge. “Well, I have bread and stew tonight, if that puts your mind at ease, Mr. Morales.”

Miles ribbed back, affectionately: “Yes, Mr. Parker, that will do.”

Time and the room around them settled.

Peter played his fingers across the clay body again. His fervor had been renewed and Miles knew that he was hurrying for Miles’s sake. Yet, as Miles began to tell him there was no need to rush, instead he let himself watch the movement of Peter’s hands.

Sometimes— many times over the years, and especially when they were young men, just gaining their virility— Peter asked to craft a sculpture after Miles. He sat for Peter while Peter kneaded and coaxed the earthen clay until he recognized his own body in Peter’s hands. He remembered the achy stiffness of his jaw. The teetering and breathlessness, and how he stood to remove his clothes, to reveal more of himself for Peter to touch— and Peter had swallowed hard and Miles had to quiet his friend’s shy protest that this was not expected of him.

Those figures Peter had crafted, varied in size and pose, were still around the workshop. It had been a long time since Miles looked at any of them. His eyes would blur when they drifted upon one. 

He remembered the argument. One day he couldn’t find his patience. Peter had sculpted his form so often by that time, and always, always he spoke about Miles’s body— its shapes, its weight, it’s coloring— beautiful, impassioned praise of it, and yet— “Stop looking at me like I’m some mound of clay!” he had yelled. “I don’t  _ care _ about being beautiful to you!”

Peter had recoiled. He had apologized for forgetting the person within the body. It took a while before Miles had compassion for Peter, who had innocently been an artist at his work. Still, it was a longer time before Miles asked to be a muse for Peter again. And, during the years that followed that angry accusation, what a sweet closeness grew between them!

Miles thought about the paper across the room which was covered with Peter’s eyes, wrinkles, his lips, his chin, the fat and sinew, his potter’s smock falling over his lap, his clever fingers, his long waist with its soft sides. . . Miles’s breath caught.  _ Madre Maria _ , he prayed, but it was Peter’s pardon he needed.  _ Què hipócrita _ !

Because, between his legs, he was pounding again. He felt the headiness that comes when one’s self-awareness drains down, away from the brain… and pools there,  _ just _ there, in his stomach and where his pants felt tight. He laughed at himself.  _ Uy _ . _ I look at him all the time. I draw his image nearly every time we’re together. What is this? _

Yet, this time, was it not more than looking? When he rendered Peter on the page, it was fueled by curiosity.  _ Need _ . Though he hated to call it such. An artist may observe and replicate an image on the paper across his lap, but this was different. He ached to touch Peter.

Miles watched Peter’s arms move, his hands climbing up the wet kaolin vase. He used a finger to build up the vase’s lip. The clay rose to the tender curve of his finger as the lip was widening — almost,  _ perhaps _ — engorging.

“ _ Pete _ .”

The wheel stopped again. Peter turned to him, fully, giving all his attention. Undoubtedly, Miles’s tone had been more urgent than he’d meant for it to be. Peter’s concern gave way to a gentle smile. “Need something?”

“Yes.” Miles said then cleared the huskiness from his voice. “I mean, no, but—” Somehow (and without falling) he walked to Peter. His steps sounded calm, sure, but his chest and head were swimming. “If I asked, would you let me— uh—”

He was nearly standing in between Peter’s knees.  _ Qué haces, Miles? _ He gazed down into an eagerly waiting face.

“Yes.” Peter answered.

With a tinge of annoyance he tutted through a grin. “You don’t know what I was going to ask.”

“Oh! Sorry!” Peter blinked. “I thought I knew what you— but— What was it you were going to ask me for?” He smiled again. It broke through Miles’s nerves; he laughed.

“What,” he said and offered his hands, “did you say yes to?”

Though Peter wiped off his own hands on his smock and held Miles’s, he dropped his face sheepishly.  _ Should have known he’d get sh _ y, Miles thought wistfully. But, to his joy, he heard his friend speak.

“Just, I thought you might ask to kiss me.”

Ah, here, Miles was guided back to the person inside the body, the person that he —

The clay slip on Peter’s hands was already beginning to dry. Miles felt the clinging of it in the bend of his fingers. He felt it give way and become silky as it fell. This was the pleasure of a sculptor, of a ceramicist. This was what he had envied. Though there was more that he desired, apart from the ability to  _ feel _ as he crafted…

He desired to  _ know _ , and to know this person— that he loved.

He leaned down and ran his nose along Peter’s forehead, contemplating its boundary as it would appear as a line on the page, until Peter looked up. Their eyes spoke briefly, then closed. Miles touched Peter’s face as they kissed; he didn’t dare explore further until he could ask with words, but he gently tested the curve of his cheekbones; found the folds leading to his eyes; ran his thumbs over the length of Peter’s jawline, down to his chin.

Eventually they had to break long enough for deeper breaths. Peter couldn’t stand to let him retreat too far; he pushed until Miles felt his curly hair trapped between their brows. “If, uh,” Miles tried. “If I asked, would you let me touch you?” He helped the words leave his mouth— though Peter had already answered “yes” before they emerged fully.

“I mean,” Peter amended, “if you want to.”

“I do.” He all but squeaked. They both laughed at the sound.

“Okay.”

So, their clumsy talk ended, and Miles’s clumsy touch spread down Peter’s neck, his shoulders, and arms. Peter kissed his face until Miles stood straight. “My back,” he explained softly. He did not let go of Peter’s sleeves, though. After a questioning smile, he touched the smock straps that kept the garment around Peter’s shoulders. They were of rough canvas; the disparity between the canvas and Peter’s soft skin sent a thrill shuddering down his base.

Peter reached up and untied the knotted straps at the back of his neck. Before Miles could collect his thoughts, Peter had removed his smock, his suspenders, and was undoing his shirt buttons.

Miles prepared for the sight— unthinking, he worried his own shirt buttons. Then, the fastening of his trousers. The loosened fabric shifted around his chest and hips. He sighed unsteadily. Before him was Peter’s naked chest and arms—  _ Dios _ ! how ready he was to touch, to press against, to understand the construction of that vulnerable frame— but, his friend was standing up. Peter unbuckled his belt.

“Ah— are—?”

The sound of fabric falling away hushed him. Peter looked up, a little abashed. “No?” He asked.

“Yes— absolutely, yes.” Miles reassured him. “If you want—?”

“I do.” Peter said, warmly, then slipped his arms around Miles’s waist. Their two bodies— different, deliciously self-bound and all the more pleasurable for their independence — nearly melted together in the heat as they stood flush, chest to chest, bellies together.

“ _ O! _ ” Miles couldn’t stop the sound from rushing out. But, it didn’t matter. Peter would not laugh at him.

No, his head was tucked into Miles’s neck. Contentment lulled his features to complete rest. But, not for too long; he began to nuzzle, in long, desperate strokes. “Miles, would you be okay with— if I taste you?”

Through the flurry of excitement in his gut, Miles laughed to himself. So, there were things still that the sculptor wished for. “Uh-huh.” He gave his blessing to Peter’s request and very soon there was a shy tongue dotting along his collarbone.  _ Dios! Ten piedad! _ Meanwhile he gave himself to the study of Peter’s back— so much softer than its sight suggested. He touched everywhere across the tender skin and plate-like shoulder blades and the notches of his spine hidden beneath fat.

As his deep strokes continued up and down Peter’s back, his friend would arch forward. But, when his fingertips began to trace Peter’s hip bones, the kissing that had been trailing up his neck stopped and Peter whimpered in his ear. A sudden clenching in his abdomen overpowered his other senses; Miles gasped and heard his name called.

He recovered, though, and played at the sensitive skin at Peter’s hips again. He was rewarded with a buck— an urgent pressure against his own trapped cock. He tried to roll his hips, to shimmy, to make his trousers drop and free his body to  _ touch— _ but the stubborn fabric stayed and he was not finished with Peter’s sides. The dimpled flanks were trembling under his fingers. Dumbly, he wondered if he were tickling his friend. He left the sides and trailed over the crest of Peter’s ass.

After panting at his neck, Peter sprang into kissing again, whether in thanks or for a distraction from the pleasure — it didn’t matter. Miles made circles with his fingers along the tender curves. “I can’t.” Peter ground the words through his teeth. He began thrusting against Miles, almost, it seemed— unwillingly?

“Pete?”

“Sorry.”

“For what?”

“I just—” Peter released a breathy laugh. “I don’t think I can endure much before I, you know.”

“Oh,” Miles said, for a moment feeling sorry for his friend. He hadn’t expected— well, anything. This was all much more than he could have asked. This was their history repeating, wasn’t it? In risk, one asks for something; in intimacy, one offers more than what was asked. But, could he forge a different ending?

Love washed over his thoughts; it diluted even the strong tide of lust. He kissed Peter’s cheek. “Could I,” he asked, “stand behind you?”

With what he recognized as complete, easy trust, Peter unwrapped himself from Miles’s chest and turned around. The landscape of muscle and skin he had just explored manually was revealed. “You’re lovely, Pete.” 

Peter shifted bashfully, his shoulders folding inward. He thanked Miles for saying so. “You—” he began but stopped.

Miles let his own clothes yawn off his body. Finally, the restriction of fabric was gone and his body could reach out. “Thanks.” Miles said to the unspoken praise.  _ You’re beautiful _ . Let it be in equal measure this time. Let it go beyond the surface.

This time instead of a tracing fingertip, he brushed the undercurve of Peter’s ass with the head of his cock. Peter’s spine became rod-straight, petrified, but the rest of him shook. “You’re not just lovely in this way, though, Pete.”

Peter went still. “Neither are you!” He exclaimed as though realizing a mistake. “You are kind and true—”

“Shh.” Miles pressed himself against Peter’s back. “That’s not what I— I didn’t mean to start that.” He embraced him with the fervor of someone saving his friend from drowning. As he did, he felt himself dip downward, nearly between Peter’s thighs, fit against him perfectly. He sighed before attempting to clear his thoughts. It was like blinking rain water from his eyes.

Meanwhile, Peter’s hands, chalky with dried kaolin came to hold his arms. “Miles?” He asked, his voice choked, small. Miles eased off some of his weight, alarmed that he may be pressing too hard. Peter painfully rooted the words from his throat. “I— I have— a bedroll — in the corner— over there.”

Miles chuckled in embarrassment and gladness, then kissed Peter’s back where his lips had poorly hidden his grin— there at the dip between Peter’s shoulders. With Peter still clinging to his arms, he gently combed over the solid flanks. Peter jerked at the touch; his hips twisted, grinding against Miles’s cock, which was still fitted against the cleft of Peter’s ass.

Crying out, Miles tried to keep still. However, in a streak of impish delight, Peter began to rotate his hips, purposely sending waves of warmth, smooth as those that rose over the clay body as the wheel spun and spun. Miles’s muscles clenched — at once trying to endure this and _welcoming_ it — and more— _and_ _more—_

“Wait,” he whispered and pulled away just enough to free his cock, replacing it instead, upright, the glands now nestled snugly against Peter— who was peeking over his shoulder.

“Miles,” Peter said as Miles again embraced him. His breath was a dew drop on a spider’s thread.

“Pete?” Miles nearly withdrew, but Peter was holding his hands, thumbs stroking Miles’s knuckles.

“Is this just for today?”

Miles would have withdrawn then— if he could have decided whether it might hurt his friend more. “ _ O _ ,” he said his sorrowful strain clear. Now, his plan to give, to reach, to hold and —  _ glory— _ to let Peter have this moment of only focusing on the gift he planned to give… Now was not for that gift. Now— now was for them to be face to face, to look at each other and feel that they were together.

Slowly, so as not to startle Peter, Miles removed himself, all but his left hand. He held onto Peter’s, pouring every reassurance into the touch. He didn’t need to ask his friend to look at him; Peter turned, naturally, with the motion of his disengagement— seeking Miles’s face, as though the mere sight of him would be  _ all _ comfort.

Facing him now, Peter’s eyes were not shy. They held his gaze as easily Peter’s fingers held his. The veil of desire had ripped from top to bottom and its separation of them was no longer any hindrance. Both persons, both bodies, there, together.

“Not just today.” Miles managed to voice the words. They seemed paltry, but Peter smiled.

“Okay.”

They grew still. Heat swirled between their bodies: his, Peter’s, separate but together.

Peter looked down. Miles knew even before he looked, too, what had beckoned for Peter’s attention. When his friend had turned, his cock—  _ O! _ lilting and alight— had come to rest beside his. Tremblingly close.

A brief glance back up at Miles and Peter smiled again, very softly. He let his open palm— of the hand not holding Miles’s— reach beneath both their shafts and lightly lift them. Miles swallowed. The broader span of Peter’s hand held his cock— perhaps feeling the weight?— and Peter’s fingertips kept himself flush with Miles, so that he cradled them both.

Then, he began to caress from beneath. Slowly. With lapping softness. Once. Twice. On the third full stroke, he closed his fingers over them.

Miles thought he might weep, there in the workshop, in the place that had always been a house of sacred intimacy— but now, even more pronounced. His head bowed as if he could no longer lift it. It met Peter’s and they shared the weight. He mirrored Peter’s hand, bringing his to the other side of their joined cocks. With a gasp, he began to move with Peter, sliding back and forth along their lengths.

Peter let out a long, unbroken sound. They harmonized their movements— finding rhythm, tempering their speed, the friction. Miles felt their knees press together. Each of them unable to support themselves but supported by each other. He remembered how Peter touched the clay. Careful, gentle, deliberate. Kneading, teasing, coaxing.

“ _ Dios! _ ” The word was drawn from his lips. He only realized his hips were lurching into Peter’s hold— their hold— when he felt Peter rocking against his palm. His earnesty— his adoration— That was all he could take; Miles lost his rhythm, bucking needfully, hoping to encourage Peter into the same primordial dance. 

Meanwhile, Peter’s head had slid from his forehead and nuzzled at his neck. Now, he felt Peter’s mouth slowly open in silent song against his skin. Miles prepared to catch him, knowing even through his own euphoria, that there was the chance that his friend’s legs may fail. 

Then— he had a glimpse — the peak that he was climbing— joy and a little fear— then he lapsed back into the  _ building _ . In the crook of his neck, Peter spoke his name. On instinct, he loosened his hold — the silken skin in his palm seeming to sigh— but made his movements more distinct. Peter matched him. He glimpsed the peak again— gold-lipped, soaring. Together, they strengthened the pressure, slowed the tempo, knees froze— and then small, sharp movements of their wrists and — the blinding light of the height they’d climbed took them.

When he woke from the numbness, neither of them had fallen, though they clung to each other, molded, forged together.


End file.
